CHAPTER THIRTY
The dinner proved to be miserable. Entertaining the king’s whims was worse than appeasing all the egos of the magistrates in the Shires combined.
Ephren was a lazy monarch, a frivolous man, and blatantly prejudiced against the Waulden people.
Yet, Deckard had to smile and nod, partaking in the conversation with faux enthusiasm.
The meeting that followed was no better. With the influence of Auden’s magic, they more than adequately convinced the king that the Relic replicas were real. Then Deckard had to lie carefully, explaining the last two months of their lives, Hewitt’s death, and their continued mission.
“We’ll leave in the morning,” he said in conclusion. “And hopefully, we will return within a month with the final two in our hands.”
King Ephren believed the story but pulled Deckard aside before they left. “There are spies in my court,” he said in a hushed tone.
Deckard frowned, shock rolling through him. “Your Majesty?”
“The captain of my guard has discovered strange inconsistencies in—oh, I don’t remember the exact details.” Ephren waved his hand in agitation. “But there are spies in my court, that’s what he said. And I’m starting to suspect the Calders aren’t who they appear to be.”
Deckard lifted his chin. “I see,” he replied thoughtfully. “If I may, Your Majesty?”
Ephren beckoned for his response.
“I’ve been questioning the siblings myself. I have yet to see true signs of duplicity, but one can never be too careful. Especially when it comes to Wauldeners.”
“Mm,” Ephren agreed.
Playing on his prejudice and paranoia, Deckard dropped his voice a decibel lower. “I will continue to keep an eye on them, Your Majesty. If they’re up to no good, I will discern it, and my men and I will stop them.”
King Ephren gripped his shoulder, gave a firm nod, and dismissed him.
Deckard had a headache from the pressure of maintaining such duplicity when they arrived back at the house, but he was relieved that Ephren had bought his lies.
Vayden, Isla, and Brea sat in the parlor, greeting them happily on their arrival.
“We found a few bottles of cairen in your cellar,” Vayden said, holding up a glass of the red wine.
“I hope you don’t mind that we opened two. ”
“We’ll replace them,” Brea added, then frowned at the bottles. “Not that they’re very good.”
“No, it’s all right,” Deckard assured, then moved for the kitchen to retrieve a glass. “I’ll join you.”
Once they were all gathered, Deckard accepted the Night Relic back from Vayden, feeling a dampening sensation washing over his emotions at its touch.
After weeks of wearing the Relic, at last, he was beginning to experience its true effects.
He was unusually tired, worn down from the dinner, from their travels, and from the weight of all that was still to come.
While Rafferty exuberantly filled the Alliance members in on the laborious affair of maintaining their cover during dinner, the group began to split. Ilain grabbed Ethenn’s arm, tugging him toward the stairs.
“I need to get out of this dress,” she proclaimed with exasperation. Though Ethenn blushed and Rafferty sniggered, it seemed she hadn’t meant it nearly as provocatively as it sounded.
When they disappeared, Auden sat beside his brother.
Thom pulled a chair in from the dining room, settling next to Brea to add his own snide remarks about the meal.
Deckard intended to stay to inform them of his plans for the Space Relic’s retrieval in the morning, but Evylin excused herself, ascending the stairs quietly.
Deckard frowned, watching her go. Ever since the dinner, she’d carried a sense of uncertainty around her. He couldn’t quite name the full emotion—perhaps it was disappointment or worry—but he could tell she needed reassurance. She needed him.
“Pardon the interruption,” Deckard said, stopping Rafferty mid-sentence. “We should set out at first light tomorrow. We’ll have to seek out the Keep first, and it will likely take hours to recover the Relic once we’re inside. I’d like to ensure plenty of time for travel later in the day.”
“Won’t we need to recover for a time after battling the Keep?” Vayden asked.
“We can’t afford to,” Deckard said. “Not if we want to stay ahead of Blount.”
The group nodded with disappointment, and Deckard said his goodnights, then followed after Evylin.
When he approached the second floor, Ethenn stepped out of the bedroom alone.
Deckard moved out of the young man’s way, exchanging a nod and discovering the door to his study propped open.
He glanced inside, finding Evylin standing behind the desk, running her fingers over its clean surface.
He leaned against the doorframe, wine glass still in hand, watching her.
Her dark hair framed her face as she looked down.
With the moonlight from the window at her back, she was enshrouded in light.
Her unbuttoned coat hung open to reveal her white blouse.
She lifted the cover of the singular book on the desk’s surface.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked softly.
Evylin jumped, setting a hand to her chest. “You startled me,” she said through a nervous chuckle.
“My sincerest apologies,” he said, moving into the room. “I didn’t intend to sneak up on you.”
She shook her head. “I was deep in thought.”
“I could tell.” He stood on the other side of the desk and grinned. “However, unless you’re concerned about my financial status, you won’t find the answers in that ledger.”
She tapped the book. “This is your financial record?”
He nodded. “Do you intend to audit me?”
Her nose scrunched playfully. “No, that’s far too dull.”
Deckard sipped his wine. “What are you doing in here?”
“I just . . .” She scanned the room, and he followed her gaze. There wasn’t much to see. A desk, a chair, and a meager collection of books on the built-in shelves, plus an inkwell, sheaves of paper, and a cold oil lamp.
Evylin met his gaze, brow furrowed. “Do you really work in here?” she asked.
“No,” he admitted. “Aside from doing my finances, that is. Though I’d like to do more, I’m not home often enough.”
Her expression shifted, and he caught that strange emotion again. Concern? Confusion? He couldn’t be sure. “What work would you do?” she asked.
The laughter of their friends echoed up the staircase as he said, “Read and write, I suppose.”
“What would you write?”
Deckard shrugged. “Letters. Records. Maybe I’d take notes on my studies. I’m not sure; I’ve just always imagined that I’d write something.”
“I didn’t know that,” Evylin whispered, studying him as though seeing him for the first time.
Now, the emotion came through clearer, and Deckard frowned. Evylin was apprehensive. Nervous. Why?
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Deckard set the wine glass on the desk and reached across for her hand. “Evie,” he held her gaze, “tell me.”
Evylin pulled in a shallow breath. In the unlit room, her skin appeared darker, the hollows of her cheeks deeply shadowed. She averted her gaze and pulled away. “Over the past weeks, I’ve realized something,” she said.
“And what’s that?” he asked.
Her eyes met his. “I don’t know you.”
At the intensity of her gaze, Deckard felt a cold shiver, and his brows pinched together. “I can assure you,” he said gently, “you know me better than anyone else in this world.”
Evylin shook her head vehemently. “I don’t know anything about you, Jonn.
I don’t know your birthday or our anniversary.
I don’t know your favorite book or if you have hobbies.
I wasn’t aware of your desire to write anything.
How long have you lived in this house? Would you prefer to live in the country? ”
Deckard took in her distress with confusion. “Those things don’t matter,” he promised. “You’ll learn them over time, or they’ll prove their pointlessness. But that doesn’t mean you don’t know me.”
Evylin pressed her lips together. Worry radiated out of her, fuzzing the atmosphere with her doubt. Whatever had prompted these questions, Deckard realized this wasn’t a mere curiosity. She was deeply bothered by this lack of knowledge.
Another burst of laughter reverberated up the stairwell, and Deckard sighed.
He reached out a hand. “Come on,” he whispered. “Let’s go upstairs where we can talk.”
Together, they walked out of the study, Deckard stopping only to retrieve his wine glass and shut the door behind them.
The stairs were cold, the dim oil lamp sconce on the wall flickering with a gentle yellow flame.
Once on the third floor, he led her to their bedroom.
They took the time to light the lamps inside, casting the space in a warm glow.
It was no warmer within, but Deckard drew the curtains and grabbed one of Evylin’s shawls from the wardrobe.
Securing the wrap around her shoulders, Deckard smiled gently down at her. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“When is your birthday?” she asked quietly.
Such a rudimentary question. He decided to offer her more than the simple facts. “It’s the seventh of Pyra,” he said. “I’ll be thirty-three, and I don’t like celebrating. I never have.”
The ready information relaxed Evylin. She took a seat on the bed and pulled him down beside her. “Why don’t you like celebrating?”
Deckard shrugged. “I don’t need people to celebrate me to make me feel special. It feels vain.”
She pierced him with a pointed look. “But you celebrate others,” she argued. “Why wouldn’t they want to do the same for you?”
“I see your point, but I don’t care to be the center of attention.”
Her smile twitched down in the corner.
“Now, our anniversary,” Deckard entwined their fingers on the bed between them, “is the thirteenth of Terraen, and I will always want to celebrate it.”
“How do you remember it?”
“What do you mean?”
She raised her brow. “We didn’t choose the date, as normal couples would. It just happened to us.”
“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.”